


Beer, Pie, And The Fine Art Of Gungan Killing

by stillwaters01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Movie Night, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hunt, a bruised Sam and a wired Dean unwind with a Star Wars marathon……and some serious discussion on how to gank one Jar Jar Binks.</p>
<p>(Originally posted 3/1/12)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer, Pie, And The Fine Art Of Gungan Killing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: 2/29/12 – 3/1/12
> 
> Notes: Set in season one, sometime after 1x17 (Hell House). This piece was a little challenge to myself – as much as I’m drawn to the darker side of the show, I wanted to try and step outside my comfort zone and write something lighter than my usual fare. This story was the result – a little slice of life after a hunt, some mild h/c, and a lot of brotherly banter and hating on Star Wars’ Jar Jar Binks. Just as I do not own Supernatural, I do not own any of the “Star Wars” movies or “The Princess Bride” – just borrowing them because the boys couldn’t resist. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

“You go and shower first,” Dean trudged into the motel room, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom as he dropped the weapons duffel on his bed with a muffled groan.

 

Sam stumbled to his side of the room. “You sure?” he mumbled, halfway to a sitting position on the bed before Dean interrupted him with a stern “no sitting.” Acknowledging the unspoken “you won’t be able to get back up” in the subsequent silence, Sam detoured to his backpack instead, rooting for clean clothes as Dean continued, “And yeah, I’m sure. Before you stiffen up too much to be able to do the Gigantor limbo under that shower head.”

 

Sam flexed his shoulders, wincing at the pull of impending bruising. “Would it friggin’ kill them to make showers for tall people?” he grumbled, piling clothes on the bed and leaning down to untie his boots.

 

“Dude, you’re not tall - you’re a Sasquatch of unusual size,” Dean fumbled with his own laces.

 

Sam kicked off his boots and straightened with a grimace. “At least you can fit in there without showering on your damn knees,” he muttered.

 

“Sammy, the only time I shower on my knees is when I’m sharing with someone a _lot_ hotter than you,” Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“Dean….” Sam desperately tried to scour _that_ image from his brain.

 

“And believe it or not, I’ve gotta stoop in there too, man. You know, ‘cause down here in the real world, most people _do_ consider 6’1” tall,” he gave Sam a pointed look. “Now, are you gonna stand there and bitch all night, Buttercup, or are you gonna go shower like a big boy?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and gathered up his clothes, giving Dean a clinical sweep as he walked by. “You sure, Dean? You hit that wall too, man.”

 

“I hit it _once_ , Sam – that bitch threw you like five friggin’ times. I can wait.”

 

“You….”

 

Dean stood swiftly, grabbed Sam’s face, and began checking pupil responses.

 

“Dude, what the _hell_ ….” Sam wrestled away from the offending Maglite.

 

“Checking for concussion,” Dean explained slowly, like Sam was five. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

“One,” Sam swatted Dean’s middle finger out of his face. “Why….”

 

“’Cause you keep repeating yourself,” Dean insisted, before his face softened into the open, teasing, fond big brother expression that was pure _Dean_. “Sam, I’m _sure_. Stop asking and shower already, would you?”

 

“You’re such an ass,” Sam sighed, no bite behind the insult.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean dismissed him. “Don’t deprive your elders of all the hot water,” he tossed over his shoulder.

 

Sam’s lips quirked into a half-grin as he stumbled to the bathroom. “You findin’ something to watch?” he asked from the door.

 

Dean held up the TV remote with a flourish. “On it.” He caught Sam’s nod out of the corner of his eye and turned on the TV with a yawn as the bathroom door shut, finding the TV guide before pulling out the first of the weapons to be cleaned. The hunt had been both successful and fairly routine – a pissed off poltergeist messing with a local family. Sam, especially, was going to have some bruises in the morning from getting tossed around a bit, but nothing needed stitches or hospitalization, the poltergeist was gone, and the family was safe, so all in all, Dean was calling the night a win. But now, simultaneously exhausted and wired from the adrenaline of the hunt and the emotional drain of comforting the freaked out family afterwards, they both needed to wind down before sleep would be a possibility. And tonight, as second to shower, the responsibility for the night’s entertainment and distraction fell to Dean.

 

By the time the bathroom door opened to a cloud of steam and a stiff Sam toweling his hair, Dean had all the weapons done with the exception of Sam’s gun. “Dude, our night is _made_ ,” he grinned, gesturing at the TV screen.

 

Sam stopped in front of the TV on the way to his bed. “Star Wars marathon,” he nodded approvingly, before frowning. “Wait a minute. Dean, they’re starting with the prequels, man.”

 

“So?” Dean stood up and put the cleaning supplies on Sam’s bed before heading for his duffel for clean clothes.

 

“So…..last time I saw you that pissed, someone had scratched the Impala,” Sam reminded him. “You said you’d _never_ watch that crap again,” he tucked his laundry away and sat on the end of the bed, organizing the cleaning supplies before starting to strip his weapon.

 

“No, I said there was only _one way_ I’d ever watch that crap again,” Dean corrected, nudging the green cooler between their beds into Sam’s line of sight with a grin.

 

Sam’s eyes danced, a slow smile spreading across his face. “How much we got in there?” he nodded at the cooler.

 

“Not even _close_ to what we need to deal with friggin’ Jar Jar, but it’ll have to do,” Dean shuddered dramatically.

 

“Man, you’re gonna be passed out before the pod race is even over,” Sam grinned.

 

“Like you’ll be able to keep up long enough to see that happen, Mr. Lightweight,” Dean snorted.

 

Sam set his jaw, accepting the challenge. “Maybe not – but at least I won’t be the one puking in the morning and blaming it on a CGI frog….thing.”

 

“Give me some credit, dude,” Dean mustered an offended look. “Like I’d give that frog bastard the satisfaction. Besides, he’s more nauseating sober. The beer might actually settle my stomach enough to make him barely tolerable.”

 

Sam laughed, waving Dean off with the cleaning rag. “Go shower. I’ll grab some more ice.”

 

“Grab some for your back too,” Dean turned at the bathroom door. “We’re out of the chemical packs.”

 

“I’m _fine_ , Dean. Go.”

 

Dean threw his hands up and shut the door.

 

Sam finished cleaning his gun, tucked it under the pillow, and grabbed a fresh pair of jeans. If they were going for a Star Wars prequel drinking game, they needed _something_ in their stomachs. He jotted a quick note to Dean, grabbed the keys, and headed out.

 

Dean walked out of the bathroom just as Sam was coming back in. “Dude, the ice machine is right _there_ ,” he gestured sloppily toward the window. “What….” He trailed off as Sam held up the plastic bag in his other hand.

 

“Can’t say I don’t know how to treat my elders,” Sam said, pulling plastic containers out of the bag and lining them neatly across the table.

 

Dean padded over, wrestling a t-shirt over his head. “Is that….”

 

“Pie from the diner down the street?” Sam supplied. “Yep. They had four different kinds, so I got one of each – apple, cherry, pecan, and some sort of chocolate one,” he motioned at the clear containers as he pulled out plastic utensils and tossed a canister of whipped cream at Dean. “Save some for the pie,” he pleaded, as Dean immediately pulled the top off.

 

“Just testing it,” Dean grinned, spraying some in his mouth before returning the can to the table and surveying the choices. “Man, I _knew_ I raised you right,” his eyes sparkled as he lightly slapped an area of Sam’s arm he instinctively knew _wasn’t_ bruising.

 

Ten minutes later, after insisting his had the best view of the TV, they were settled on Dean’s bed, looking like the kids they had never really been - lying on their stomachs, side-by-side with Dean closest to the door, hair dripping onto their pajamas fresh from the shower, each with a slice of pie smothered with whipped cream. As the opening credits crawled across the screen, Dean tilted his beer to Sam with a grin. “Bring it on, Lucas.”

 

As with most of their games, there weren’t really any set rules. Dean proposed drinking each time Queen Amidala’s wooden dialogue suddenly made Natalie Portman _not_ hot, but Sam pulled veto power on that one, reminding Dean he still needed to be conscious enough to hate on Jar Jar.

 

A unified groan and big swig heralded the offending character’s first appearance on screen. During the Gungan council scene, Dean handed Sam a fresh beer and took a long sip of his own. “You know something? Forget the fabric softener teddy bear. I’m hunting _this_ bitch down,” he tipped his beer at the screen.

 

“How would you do it?” Sam asked, licking his whipped cream laden spoon thoughtfully, eyes still on the TV.

 

“What? Gank Jar Jar?” Dean reached over and swiped a spoonful of whipped cream from Sam.

 

“Dude, the can is right over there,” Sam thrust his spoon toward the table.

 

“Exactly. It’s over _there_. Yours is right _here_.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and moved on. “I mean, assuming he was corporeal, and not, you know, a computer graphic,” he set the parameters, glancing over at Dean, who had returned to watching the screen.

 

Dean considered the question. “Personally, I’d like to torch the little bastard,” he said, before pausing and thinking again. “But I don’t think it’d be that easy – ‘cause he’s not _really_ corporeal, right?”

 

Sam nodded around another spoonful of whipped cream. “Yeah, he’s more like a….. _manifestation_ of evil.”

 

“I always thought Jar Jar was kinda demonic – you know, in a ‘ruin your childhood and make you wish for the friggin’ Apocalypse’ kind of way,” Dean thought out loud, his eyes suddenly brightening. “Hey, you think George Lucas was possessed? Like if we exorcised him, he’d realize how bad Jar Jar sucked and replace him like he did with Darth Vader at the end of Jedi?” his face darkened at the mention of the blasphemous classic trilogy edits.

 

“Maybe,” Sam considered the TV as seriously as he studied any pre-hunt research. “Or maybe he’s a tulpa.”

 

“What – Jar Jar?!” Dean sputtered.

 

“Think about it, Dean,” Sam reasoned, pausing to join Dean for a drink with a particularly cringe-worthy piece of dialogue, before continuing, “He only exists because of George Lucas, right? What if Lucas believed in Jar Jar so much that he actually brought him to life?”

 

Dean considered that for a minute. “So, what, George Lucas’s house has Tibetan spirit sigils engraved on its gold-plated walls?”

 

Sam shrugged. “We’ve seen weirder.”

 

“Touché,” Dean acknowledged with a tilt of the head. They both took another drink and groaned at the screen, before Dean picked up the conversation again. “Yeah, but since everyone else hates him, that means Lucas brought Jar Jar to life _himself_. I mean, it took tens of thousands of website hits to bring Mordechai to life, and, what, like twenty monks visualizing that golem before it appeared? So, to meditate hard enough, just _him_ , to bring Jar Jar to life……Lucas would have to be, like, the Dalai friggin’ Lama.”

 

Sam winced. “I think we just insulted every Buddhist on the planet with that thought.”

 

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, reaching for more beers.

 

“You’re right,” Sam decided with a nod. “Exorcise Lucas, torch Jar Jar.”

 

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean said, handing him a beer. “You might be right. And if he _is_ a tulpa, he’s a pretty damn powerful one. Millions of fans wishing for that frog bastard’s death for _years_ hasn’t done squat. We should call Bobby in the morning – think we’re gonna need backup on this one.”

 

“Good call,” Sam reached over and snagged a bite of Dean’s pie.

 

“You don’t even _like_ cherry,” Dean protested, swatting Sam’s hand away.

 

“Dude, you’ve got so much whipped cream on it, I can’t even _taste_ the cherry,” Sam retorted. He shifted into a sitting position with a groan. “You want the pecan now?” he asked.

 

Dean waved him back down. “I’ll get it,” he said, taking the empty containers to the kitchenette as Sam slowly eased back onto his stomach.

 

“Dean, I’m _fine_ ,” Sam insisted, at the sound of ice packs being made.

 

“Yeah, because you _always_ make that face when you sit up,” Dean noted the lingering lines of pain around Sam’s eyes. “The movie’s bad Sam, but it’s not _that_ painful.”

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably as Dean came back over with three ice packs and a handful of washcloths. “Where’s the worst of it?” he asked, gently lifting Sam’s shirt.

 

Sam directed the ice pack placement with a resigned, but grateful sigh, stiffening at the initial chill, even through the protective towels, before his muscles began to relax under the welcome numbness. “Thanks,” he melted into the bed.

 

“Can’t say I don’t know how to treat pain in the ass little brothers,” Dean returned with a light smile, heading back to the kitchenette and grabbing the last two slices of pie and the can of whipped cream. He settled back next to Sam and glanced at his beer. “You need another?”

 

“How many is this?” Sam asked, squinting at the bottle.

 

Dean’s pause was just long enough for Sam’s eyes to narrow; a silent, warning, glare to tell the truth. Dean sighed theatrically at Sam ruining his fun. “Number three for both of us,” he answered honestly.

 

“God, we haven’t even gotten halfway through,” Sam moaned. “I’m gonna hate you in the morning, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah, probably,” Dean nodded, slapping a beer into Sam’s outstretched hand.

 

He was impressed – Sam actually made it halfway through the final battle before passing out. With an indulgent smile, Dean got up, turned off the TV, cleared the garbage and soggy ice packs, and grabbed the blankets from Sam’s bed. Setting out water and aspirin for the both of them, he draped the comforter over his sleeping brother, then joined him under the covers.

 

“Night, Sammy.”

 

***

 

In the morning, Sam blamed Dean for the brutal hangover, Dean blamed Sam for whacked-out dreams about Gungan monks with George Lucas beards, and Bobby blamed both of them for waking him up with drunken calls about killing fictional characters.  

 

“’M surprised you didn’t keep going. Would’ve been a record,” Sam groaned from his hunched position over the toilet, as Bobby hung up on Dean for the second time. Neither of them had ever made it through a full movie drinking game before, and Dean had been damn close.

 

“Yeah, well someone had to be sober enough to hold your hair back in the morning, Princess,” Dean smirked from his seat next to Sam on the bathroom floor, subtly easing his aching head onto the coolness of the tile walls.

 

Sam reflexively rolled his eyes, and immediately regretted it as the movement sent him retching, a low moan deep in his chest as his abused back spasmed. Dean scooted forward and laid one warm hand on his aching back, the other, blessedly, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

 

But Sam didn’t regret a thing from the previous night. And they both knew why Dean had really stopped once Sam fell asleep.

 

It just wasn’t any fun without your brother.


End file.
